The Best Gift

My wife calls me a hoarder, though I prefer the label ‘pack rat’ better. But names aside, I collect objects and store them in collection bins with other a-like things.

When I find something I have nothing to pair with, it ends up in a large wooden box that once belonged to my wife’s grandparents. And sometimes, it gets too full and cannot be closed.

When this happens, we set about removing, rearranging, and throwing some items away. My wife rarely asks why I save this or that.

In November, we poured through the box, pulling everything out and setting it aside before reloading it neatly. She surprised me by asking about a set of binoculars I’ve had since 2nd grade.

“Why are you keeping these?” she said. “They don’t work.”

“They’re sentimental to me,” I said. “Let me explain.”

It was Mrs. Newquist’s class that Brett first came. He was a bright kid, but anyone could tell by his clothes and the free government lunches that his folks were not well-off. We used to hang out on the playground and at home since we were neighbors.

Come Christmas time, having saved my chore money, I bought him a model car kit. Brett was fascinated by anything on four wheels.

We exchanged gifts. I saw the delight in Brett’s eyes at the neatly wrapped package Mom had helped me do.

Then he handed me my gift wrapped in writing paper, the lined type we used for practicing penmanship. I tore it open, only to find his stupid, broken binoculars that he always had around his neck.

Hurt, I raced home crying and hid in my bedroom. It was there that Mom found me and explained how it was the best gift he could have given me, it was all that he had to offer, and he’d given them to me from the heart.

“Once I understood this, I was happy with them, and we played with them all the time, busted or not,” I said. “And that’s why I still have them, to remind me about what real giving is about.”

She handed them back to me, and I slipped them into the box.